by Danice Allen
The dashing fellow bent his gaze on her now, his finely arched, ebony eyebrows raised in supercilious inspection. His chocolate-brown eyes were long and almond-shaped. His mouth was the inexplicable combination of firm and soft, the corners just now an unprincipled, sly curve.
That smile, and his jaded appraisal of her from beneath drooping eyelids, announced Delacroix’s arrogance and conceit. It seemed Anne’s theory about dandyism was about to be proved once more. She slid an amused, incredulous glance at Reggie. His returning look was smug; it said, I told you so.
Chapter Two
“Mon Dieu! You say this ravishing young woman is your niece, madame?” Delacroix had a deep voice and a pronounced French accent, which was charming. The bored drawl he affected was not. It reminded Anne of the dandies in London.
“I did,” Katherine agreed, her own expression carefully neutral.
One brow arched, the beautiful eyes widened with artificial surprise, the sly smile curved a little higher. “I do not remark a resemblance in the least. Are you quite sure you’re related?”
Katherine pounded her cane against the floor. “If you are trying to flummery the girl with a compliment, Delacroix, kindly refrain from insulting me in the same breath, if you please!”
Delacroix chuckled softly. “Dear madame,” he scolded in a teasing voice, “how could you ever think I meant to insult you? You and your niece are simply different. She is slender and delicate, like an exquisite flower, while you”—he cocked his head to the side and studied Katherine—“are tall and sturdy, like an elegant, majestic oak. Both of you are very beautiful, but in different ways, n’est-ce pas?”
Katherine’s only reply was another pound of her cane, perhaps aimed at the highly polished toe of Delacroix’s boot. However, he moved just then, shifting his attention back to Anne and his foot out of harm’s way. “Forgive my impertinence, Mademoiselle Weston, but which of your fortunate relatives do you resemble?”
Anne answered archly, “I shan’t forgive your impertinence, Mr. Delacroix. Forgiveness can only be granted when there is true repentance. You’re not repentant. You positively enjoy being impertinent.”
Delacroix’s look of genuine surprise was ample reward against the risk of a lecture from Reggie on vulgar manners. He collected his wits quickly, then waggled a finger at her, saying ever so softly, “Ah! I see I’m not the only one who enjoys being impertinent.”
“Does it offend you, sir? I hope not,” Anne said breezily. “I want to make a good first impression here in America.”
“Mademoiselle, you are most charming,” said Delacroix with a courtly nod of his head, his eyes gleaming. “And you’ve made quite a first impression already. At least you’ve made quite an impression on me.” He spread long, beautiful fingers over his waistcoat, reluctantly drawing Anne’s attention to the broad expanse of his chest. His voice lowered seductively. “Can’t you see how my heart beats wildly against my waistcoat?”
Anne’s gaze lifted to Delacroix’s. There was a flirtatious twinkle in his eyes that Anne was sure flattered and fascinated most women. Although she could feel a flush creeping up her neck in response to the scoundrel’s lavish and probably completely insincere compliments, she repressed her traitorous reaction and tilted her chin at a defiant angle. “Well, then, if I can be impertinent and still be charming, I shall remain impertinent. One’s curiosity is satisfied so much faster that way, don’t you think? Tell me, Mr. Delacroix, whom do you resemble?”
“People say I’m the image of my father,” Delacroix readily replied. “He was rather a dashing rogue in his youth, but now, sadly, he’s allowed himself to lag behind the current fashion trends.” He paused to straighten a ruffle that had caught on one of his numerous watch fobs. “He works too hard, plays far too seldom. But in all other respects, we are very much cut from the same cloth, as the Americans say.” Delacroix’s mouth twisted in a patronizing smirk. “They have so many quaint phrases, the Americans.”
Anne felt her temper stir at Delacroix’s attitude of superiority, but she kept her smile firmly in place. “I don’t know about that. But I do know that I admire American people very much. They are so open and unaffected, so industrious and enterprising.”
Delacroix shuddered slightly, then lifted a hand in mock surrender. A quasi-apologetic smile tilted his lips. “Pray stop, Mademoiselle Weston. You’re making a useless fellow like myself feel quite ashamed. The Americans are a busy lot, I’ll admit. It sometimes fatigues me simply to converse with them.”
Anne’s brows lifted. “I understand there’s a great distinction made in New Orleans between the Creole culture and what is called the American culture. Surely you’re all Americans, Mr. Delacroix? Surely you consider yourself an American as well as a Creole?”
Delacroix dispatched a fly from his sleeve with a fillip of slim fingers. The bored drawl was pronounced as he said, “Not at all, mademoiselle. But must we discuss such an uninteresting topic? After all, neither of us is an American. It doesn’t apply.” His face brightened. He bent and took her hand, kissing it again. “I’ve never met an American woman half as beautiful as you are, mademoiselle. Your hair is as bright as an English sovereign.”
Anne drew back her hand, ashamed at the very pleasant thrill that ran up her arm in response to his brief kiss. Couldn’t this fellow be serious for even one minute? She would force him to talk sense. “Surely, Mr. Delacroix, you have some sort of occupation?”
He grinned slyly. “I do keep occupied. My services are much in demand these days.”
Anne cleared her throat, not able to believe he’d truly meant a double entendre in such a public and mixed-sex conversation. “Er … your services? What do you do?”
“Many things, ma petite.” His smile broadened. He seemed to enjoy her discomfort. “Perhaps it would clarify things if I told you I am heir to Bocage, a sugar plantation just outside of New Orleans.”
“So you do …?”
“I do nothing.” He made an elegant shrug. “What is there to do?”
Anne recognized in Lucien Delacroix the same sort of lazy fellow she’d met a hundred times in London, content to live off his inheritance, contributing nothing, doing nothing constructive. “Management of the plantation does not keep you busy?”
He replied, “No, of course not. It keeps my father busy.”
Yet even that was an exaggeration. Anne knew Delacroix’s father must own dozens of slaves. The slaves were the truly busy ones, the ones who did all the real work on the estate.
Delacroix studied her for a moment, as if he were penetrating her thoughts. For such a shallow person, this seemed unlikely, but his next words were surprisingly astute. “Ah, now I remark the resemblance between you and your aunt! It goes much further than skin-deep. You, too, have the tender heart of an abolitionist, n’est-ce pas? You do not think any of us plantation owners keep busy, except in the exploitation of slaves? You do not approve?” He watched her closely, waiting, a slight mocking smile on his lips.
He had implied that she was being presumptuous, that as a foreigner and someone who had not as yet even set foot in New Orleans, she shouldn’t be passing judgment on their lifestyle. But Anne had seen enough to feel that she was entitled to her opinions without being treated condescendingly. She did not trust herself to reply.
Finally Delacroix inquired with gentle sarcasm, “You don’t believe in idle chitchat, do you, mademoiselle? You do not speak unless you can cut straight to the heart of things.” He smiled brilliantly then, and Anne couldn’t help the way her pulse skittered. She told herself he was all charm and no substance. She willed her heart to resume a more normal pace.
“She’s like me, Delacroix,” Katherine declared proudly. “Nothing mealymouthed about her!”
Delacroix acknowledged this with a tiny sardonic nod of his head. “I see. Charming, I’m sure. I myself prefer chitchat. But just for the sake of finishing this rather unlucky turn in conversation, Mademoiselle Weston must understand that my family roo
ts go back to the first French settlers … before the Spanish, before the Americans. Delacroix is a venerated Catholic Creole name, and Bocage is one of the largest plantations in the state. Could she really expect me to hold opinions of a different nature than those I’ve just expressed?”
“Indeed,” said Anne, finally finding her voice. “I shouldn’t expect anything from you but the truth. And if you believe differently than I do, then that is certainly your choice.”
“In many other matters, mademoiselle,” said Delacroix, “I hope we will agree.”
Anne gave a tiny shrug, implying that that was unlikely. By the answering spark of interest in his eyes, Delacroix apparently took her indifference as a challenge. That he would continue to pursue her with flirtatious advances ought to have annoyed her, but she was filled with a strange and thrilling sense of anticipation. It was just her luck, though, that the first handsome man she’d met in America was the very type she’d left England to avoid!
“Ah! But how I rattle on,” he said at last, spreading one hand wide in a helpless gesture. He had beautiful hands—strong, tapered, capable-looking. It seemed grossly incongruent that they belonged to such a wastrel. “You must excuse me. Someone I particularly wish to talk to has just boarded.”
He glanced over his shoulder, then turned back to Anne. “But one last word of advice, mademoiselle.” While Reggie glared disapprovingly, Delacroix leaned close so that only she could hear. His breath fanned across her cheek. “Your lips look like an angel’s. Soft as clouds, and moist as morning dew. Don’t press them so tightly together like the knees of an old maid aunt. They were not made for such a disapproving frown. They were made to be kissed.”
Anne was caught in the throes of very conflicting feelings. She was indignant at the fellow’s bold flirting—conducted right in front of her two guardians, no less!—and unwillingly flattered by his poetic description of her lips. She caught herself just as she was about to lift her hand and touch her lips, just to see if they were as soft as he suggested.
By now he’d turned back to the others, speaking in far less intimate tones. “Lovely to see you, Madame Grimms. So pleased to make your acquaintance, Monsieur Weston. I hope we meet again.” Then he made another flourishing bow and strode away to greet their newest passenger, Mr. Bodine.
“I should have known he’d be friends with that man,” Anne remarked disapprovingly. The two of them were talking and smiling as if they were long-lost chums. It was repugnant to watch the display of easy, privileged camaraderie while in the background the family of slaves, their expressions dejected and tired, moved to the stairs that led below-deck.
Bodine made a gesture at the young black girl and winked at Delacroix, his intentions obvious. Anne knew Bodine would bed the girl that very night. She felt bile burn her throat. Men of Bodine’s nature sickened her. How she wished there was some way to extricate that poor child from her fate.
Katherine greeted another acquaintance, and Anne moved through the gathering crowd of people to the side of the steamboat that faced away from the dock, looking out toward the last remnants of the sunset over a distant island. She heard Reggie’s footsteps behind her, felt his sleeve brush hers as he, too, leaned against the railing.
“Uncle Reggie, please don’t say, ‘I told you so!’” Anne pleaded. “Obviously not all American men are the type I was hoping to meet here. And America has as many problems with snobbishness as England does. The Creoles and the Americans both think they’re better than the other.”
Reggie sighed. “Yes, I’m sure that’s true.” He paused, then said, “I can’t believe I’m saying this … but to be fair, you mustn’t judge all American men by Delacroix and Bodine.”
“I should hope not,” Anne returned with a grim smile. “What a conceited care-for-nobody Delacroix is! He’s very full of himself and thinks he can entertain a woman simply by flashing that smile of his and flattering her excessively. I should hope I’m not so addle-brained that my head can be so easily turned by a few pretty words.”
Reggie snorted. “Indeed!”
“But this slavery issue …” Anne’s smile fell away. “I never expected to feel so strongly about it. It’s so wrong, Uncle Reggie. But men like Delacroix and Bodine don’t seem to think there’s anything wrong with it.”
Reggie pushed back a stray wisp of hair from Anne’s eyes. “I know, dear. But there’s not a blessed thing you can do about it. Now give your old uncle a kiss, and let’s put our minds on something more pleasant, shall we?”
Anne kissed Reggie, then took his advice and tried to think of something more pleasant, but out of the corner of her eye she could see Delacroix. He was standing with Bodine, their conversation interrupted by some late arrivals. A cluster of women had boarded the boat and headed straight for Delacroix. Peals of feminine laughter rang out, fans waved coquettishly, and many lashes fluttered over blushing cheeks as Delacroix wielded his charm.
Anne’s own cheeks blazed with color, too. How could those women be so silly? she thought indignantly. What could that scoundrel possibly be saying that could be so entertaining? She strained to listen but, regrettably, could make out nothing. There was just the deep, pleasant rumble of his voice across the deck.
She lifted a hand and briefly, shyly touched her lips. Were they as soft as an angel’s?
Lucien watched enviously as Anne Weston stretched on her tiptoes to kiss her uncle on the cheek. He lifted his hand to his own face, imagining the light pressure of her lips against his skin. Having finally warded off the onslaught of female acquaintances as they’d boarded the boat, he was listening with half an ear to Bodine’s meaningless babble, inserting comments when necessary, but, for the most part, allowing himself the indulgence of regret.
Anne Weston was everything he admired in a woman. Normally he’d never allow an exchange with a beautiful woman to get so serious, but Anne had seemed determined to take his measure by his conversation. The resulting bout of seriousness had been brief, but it had certainly shown Lucien her measure. He’d learned that she was spirited, full of convictions, and as open and unaffected as she claimed the Americans were. She was idealistic and passionate. All this, and packaged so fetchingly in golden perfection. He was intrigued, caught up in a wild infatuation the likes of which he’d never felt before.
Sharp and tearing, the regret persisted, intensified. To her, he was a flirtatious wastrel, a conceited cad, and so he must remain in her estimation. He’d no business even wanting her to know his true self, the part of him that echoed every sentiment she’d expressed, felt every bit of repulsion she did for the institution of slavery. He watched her rest her head against Reggie’s shoulder and wished it was his own shoulder she used as a prop for those fair curls.
“Delacroix, what do you say to a game of cards tonight?”
Lucien bowed, relegating his regrets to the back of his mind. It simply wasn’t meant to be. “You know I can never resist a bit of gambling on a riverboat.”
“Or anywhere else.” Bodine gave a bark of laughter.
“You know me too well, Bodine. Directly after supper, I suppose?”
“I’ll be looking forward to it.”
“Shall we dine together?”
“If you like.”
“Directly, then. J’ai faim. Save the girl for later, Bodine, when you’ve got the leisure to enjoy her. Besides, it’s too damned hot for rutting.”
Bodine had fully intended to deflower the girl before dinner, but money was money, and he didn’t want to lose out on winning a few dollars by refusing to take supper earlier than usual. “I’ll only be a moment.”
Bodine tipped his hat and walked away. Lucien watched him strut toward the stairs, so pleased with his latest purchases, and no doubt anticipating an evening of pleasure: good food, gambling, and rape.
I look forward to the evening as well, you swine, Lucien thought. By the time you leave the card table, you’ll be lucky to make it to bed before you pass out. Unconscious from the sleeping he
rbs Armande mixed up for me, you won’t be able to lay a hand on the girl, or do a damned thing about it when I send your family of slaves down the river to their freedom.
He turned away, his eyes returning of their own volition to where Anne Weston stood at the rail, her slim figure outlined against the Mississippi sunset, the cool breeze lifting her ringlets and bouncing them against her cheek as she looked out over the water.
God, how he hated this masquerade.
Anne woke up suddenly. Because her abigail insisted on closing the only small window to the tiny cabin they shared on the top deck of the Belvedere, the room was hot. All was silent except for the soft huffing of the smokestacks.
Anne threw off her covers and pushed aside the mosquito netting that fell in a canopy over her bed. She picked up her watch locket from the bedside table, then swung her legs over the side of the bed and walked to the window, shifting back the curtain. Squinting and holding the watch to catch the faint glow of moonlight, she could just make out the time: ten minutes past four. In another hour dawn would break. She had just enough time for a cooling walk on deck before the daily activities resumed and the crew began preparations for landing at New Orleans.
Three or four of the crew would be on duty in the pilot’s cabin, navigating the boat and watching for river pirates, but otherwise the decks would be virtually deserted. The gamblers and revelers usually retired around two or three in the morning and would be sleeping off their booze by now, so predawn was probably the quietest time on the boat and the best opportunity Anne would have to be alone. She hadn’t been entirely alone since she’d left England, and it was making her feel a bit barmy.
Anne turned to observe the dark form of her sleeping abigail, Sarah. The girl was sprawled on the small cot set against the opposite wall. Anne couldn’t detect any movement under the tent of mosquito netting, and Sarah’s breathing sounded quite deep. Normally Sarah was a heavy sleeper, and tonight didn’t seem to be an exception to the rule.